every post. When it arrives I shall reply that I shall be delighted
to come, but that, alas! pressure of work will prevent my staying beyond
Tuesday.

THE LANDSCAPE GARDENER

Really I know nothing about flowers. By a bit of luck, James, my
gardener, whom I pay half a crown a week for combing the beds, knows
nothing about them either; so my ignorance remains undiscovered. But in
other people's gardens I have to make something of an effort to keep up
appearances. Without flattering myself I may say that I have acquired a
certain manner; I give the impression of the garden lover, or the man
with shares in a seed company, or--or something.

For instance, at Creek Cottage, Mrs. Atherley will say to me, "That's an
_Amphilobertus Gemini_," pointing to something which I hadn't noticed
behind a rake.

"I am not a bit surprised," I say calmly.

"And a _Gladiophinium Banksii_ next to it."

"I suspected it," I confess in a hoarse whisper.

Towards flowers whose names I know I adopt a different tone.

"Aren't you surprised to see daffodils out so early?" says Mrs. Atherley
with pride.

"There are lots out in London," I mention casually. "In the shops."

"So there are grapes," says Miss Atherley.

"I was not talking about grapes," I reply stiffly.

However, at Creek Cottage just now I can afford to be natural; for it is
not gardening which comes under discussion these days, but
landscape-gardening, and any one can be an authority on that. The
Atherleys, fired by my tales of Sandringham, Chatsworth, Arundel, and
other places where I am constantly spending the week-end, are
readjusting their two-acre field. In future it will not be called "the
garden," but "the grounds."

I was privileged to be shown over the grounds on my last visit to Creek
Cottage.

"Here," said Mrs. Atherley, "we are having a plantation. It will keep
the wind off; and we shall often sit here in the early days of summer.
That's a weeping ash in the middle. There's another one over there.
They'll be lovely, you know."

"What's that?" I asked, pointing to a bit of black stick on the left;
which, even more than the other trees, gave the impression of having
been left there by the gardener while he went for his lunch.

"That's a weeping willow."

"This is rather a tearful corner of the grounds," apologized Miss
Atherley. "We'll show you something brighter directly. Look
there--that's the oak in which King Charles lay hid. At least, it will